The Time Being
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: No, none of him between the wood and plaster of her apartment, she’d never get him out. Elliot/Olivia


_spoilers_: Inconceivable, Paternity and errr...

_disclaimer_: I actually own Dick Wolf, and therefore I own SVU. Transitive property?

_thanks_: Lori, for the beta.

* * *

There's something in the air, and she can't get it out of her skin. It's sliding around autumn or something, except it's March and Central Park is swarming with tourists.

Ten, twenty a pack and it feels like grit against her teeth; she grinds them and glances up at the skyline, the granite and brick peppering the dusty backdrop that's all soot. It's a day like this that reminds her of all of those days she spent sitting beside him on a stakeout - grabbing coffee from the place around the corner, or ignoring the twitch in her hand that somehow instinctively reached for his.

Too often.

Hands deep in pockets and she saunters on; too many days with his face on her mind, wearing endless miles into her shoes over the grit of city pavement. She's never thought beyond an initial touch or press of skin on skin. It's not something she's sure she can do.

Maybe she doesn't want to; something about the reality not living up to the fantasy and it's much more. Or maybe it's that after the first contact there's only him lying dead at her feet because she's fucked up _again_. She can't fuck up with him.

Everything she touches goes to hell, and that's the way it's always been. And as she takes a right somewhere around 76th she realizes that all of the things she needs to say can't really be said.

So there's nothing to talk about, nothing beyond the daily background noise that's the bullpen and the almost quiet that they all pretend is somewhere like home.

&

Two-times-two is four, she finds herself repeating, waking to the robotic buzz of the cell at her side. It's always good to remind herself that she's awake and alive and it's either multiplication or trying to remember Fin's birthday.

Eyes adjust to the city lights that touch against the ceiling; it's too early for rationalizations so she just grabs the phone and asks of him, "What?" What else is there?

Too many things happen at once: her feet touch the floor, he chuckles in her ear, she forgets to breathe. Synchronicity in the most odd of places. One hand manages to snag a sweatshirt off of a chair, the other cradling his voice to her ear.

"Let me up," he's jovial, and light enough for noon time; she's not that sure her apartment can handle all of that natural light. Olivia's shadows are too used to hanging on the walls, and what would she do without them? Too funny a thought, so she laughs and there's silence on his end.

No, none of him between the wood and plaster of her apartment, she'd never get him out. "I'll come down." And that is that. The phone is shut and she pulls on jeans.

Elliot is already on the stoop, knees spread wide with hands wrapped around cheap Styrofoam. There's only a split-second to glance at him before he looks up and they're greeting one another silently.

He hands a cup to her, reaching up over his head as he diverts his eyes; casual ignorance. It's better that way, easier. How well they both play that game.

Moisture breezes along her neck like earlier, but it's different now. All she feels is autumn because the spring means rebirth and there's no rebirth for them. Such a folly to think that anything might change between morning and midnight coffee.

"It's always coffee, yeah?" And oh, that 2 a.m. slide in his voice is so sharp is cuts right through her; she doesn't mind.

Excited breath puffs out across the surface of the steaming cup, as though to cool it down, but she can't halt the beat of her heart or the dryness in her throat. "Yeah, it is." Concrete in Brooklyn is colder than anywhere else and it seeps into her skin through the thin denim and she thinks 'all we share is this guilt' because, what else is there to think?

Elliot holds his coffee out in front of his face, tips it towards her. "I went out of my way, this time."

&

She can't think about what he said to her in the car, about her abilities as a mother, about how he would support her. How he sounded like he had everything figured out and how vehement he seemed to get her to understand that.

If there's one thing she doesn't need, it's his pity. And something inside of her knows that there isn't a chance that he would ever do that to her, but part of her wants him to, so she could hate him, for _something_.

It's violently amusing, really, that she now wants a child and he has, what, ten of them (that's not fair)? If things were different… if they were different.

If things were different, then they would be different; they'd be different and that'd be all.

&

A year between them and he touches her more.

She's aware of his palm against the small of her back, on her shoulder, back of his hand pressed to her thigh as they marinade together in court. A subtle shift; she won't struggle to find the meaning of any of it.

Wong sees it, sometimes, and slides her confused glances; maybe Elliot doesn't realize that he does it but the psychiatrist knows how to read things. Once in awhile she thinks about asking him what this thing is between she and her partner but…

Mostly, she doesn't want to hear it.

&

There's coffee and Central Park and him and for some reason, she finally touches on why she hates Manhattan. She's too alone here.

A rare lunch break in between interviewing suspects, filled with terrible coffee and good doughnuts and hard, wooden benches that line fifth avenue. Even next to him, she's the only damn person in the city.

She's looking at the façade of a high rise and he's got powdered sugar clinging to his bottom lip. It compliments the weather, how relaxed and at ease he seems and it kind of frightens her. "Can I tell you something?"

It's not really a question because they both know he's going to say it anyway. When they talk, they talk and when they don't there's that unspoken thing between them. They're fucking gabbing away with their damn mouths shut all the time.

The lemon filling is cool as she dips her pinky in to gather a bit, "Yeah?"

Elliot thumbs the rim of his cup as though to steel himself and she peels her eyes away from the stone only to glance down at his hands. "She filed the papers last week."

"Well," Olivia sighs and leans further back into the bench, the slight dampness from the wood seeping into her bones.. "You gave it your best."

The mid-April sun filters through the canopy of trees and they both hear the lie, acknowledge it and let settle between them.

&

She peels the labels off of her bottles, but not all the way. Soggy paper, frayed at the edges and the adhesive never seems to give right. There's a pile of sodden mess in front of her and the bar is nearly empty, save for a few of the cops from the two-twelve.

It's here, in between the dark and the grit that they all banish their demons; all of them (it never, ever works).

But no, it's just them and dim light and that stale beer smell that makes her think that it's time to hit the hay. "Alright," the word rustles the hair that's fallen in front of her face; she pulls a twenty from her pocket and tosses it on the table, covering the round.

"I'll wait with you," he offers, knowing that at this time of night, cabs are less frequent on this side of town. A good excuse too, to spend time in the night together, she tries to suppose.

She recalls Elliot's mother, and Kathleen and is remorseful (the feeling nearly kills her on the spot, the heaviness) that she doesn't ask about his kids more. "How's Kathleen?" she asks, as though it'll ameliorate the guilt. It's something that-as his partner-she should know, she should want to know.

But she just wants to sleep, maybe forget that he exists for a few hours.

The pockets of his slacks must be deep, because his hands are swallowed in an instant, and he looks away. That practiced, go-to move that puts his face in profile under the weak light from the street lamp. "As good as can be; Huang sees her, from time to time."

Olivia blinks. She understands that he's a father, and he doesn't trust anyone really, when it comes to his kids. It's a touching sentiment, and she harbors the sensation the thought of Elliot-as-father produces as he speaks on. "You know, day by day."

It's almost a blessing, when a cab rounds the corner, because she's not practiced at this and she doesn't know how to follow up.

So they say their goodbyes and she slides into the backseat; he watches her drive off and she really, really wishes she didn't notice that.

&

Many of their confessions take place in cars; they can't get away from each other. They're happening more often now, in broken fragments of speech that don't really accumulate into sentences.

It happens beneath a bridge on the 495. Bumper to bumper at 8:30 and she's never felt as antsy. Elbow on the sill of the window while the other arm is busy pretending to steer and she's the picture of anxiety. Summer in the city is bad enough and summer on the fringes is even worse, like the season will never end.

He mimics her, though he's busy flicking the edge of a file he has in his lap, flack flack. Like he's doing it on purpose, like the traffic is all her fault. "Could you stop?" she almost wishes the request had more animosity in it.

They can't get to Connecticut fast enough; interview the suspect and back before bedtime. But she hadn't taken this into account, the hours of nothing that stretches out along interstates. The pressure to speak to him is unbearable and so she does. "This is hard."

"What is?" comes his automatic response. Maybe if he thought about it for a second, he'd understand.

Olivia says nothing but smiles sadly as she merges into the right lane. Seventy miles to go and all she can think about is autumn and how she can't imagine things ever, ever changing between them.

&

A year between them and he touches her more and she doesn't feel so alone but nothing ever changes.

Not really.


End file.
